


Wardrobe Malfunction(s)

by Caitybug, KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fanart, Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Simon being clueless, gratuitous uni library scene, normal fic, simon gets dressed in the dark tbh that's the only explanation, this counts, uni? yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29664663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: Simon Snow keeps running into this guy who always manages to find something wrong with his outfit. Unzipped flies, tag sticking out of the collar, etc...So Simon turns it into a game, trying his hardest to get under Baz's skin. The results, however, aren't what he'd expect.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 26
Kudos: 333





	Wardrobe Malfunction(s)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lafeli85](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85/gifts).



> For Baz's bday AND our friend [Liz](http://tumblr.com/blog/foolofabookwyrm). We love you v v much!
> 
> Thanks so much [Alice](http://tumblr.com/blog/waywardfangirl) and Bree for looking this over, and to [Kris](http://tumblr.com/blog/krisrix%22) for being willing to collab on this silly thing haha.

Baz

“So, have you talked to that bloke you’re lusting after yet?” Fiona asks me. She’s leaning back against the kitchen counter, drinking a cup of coffee. Her hair’s pulled back and sticking in all directions, and there’s eyeliner smudged around her eyes from the previous night. She probably won’t tidy it. She’ll call it _grunge_ and keep on with her day. “Or are you still too chicken-shit to speak to him?”

I take a long sip of my tea, trying in earnest to edit my paper and ignore my aunt. 

(Ignoring her almost never works, despite how often I try.)

I should have _never_ let it slip that I had a crush on someone. (Even thinking it to myself makes me want to _gag._ ) The only thing that makes it worse is I’ve not _actually_ spoken to him.

(I mean, I’ve said _words_ to him. Out loud. With my mouth.)

But I don’t know if _“Your jumper is inside out”_ counts as a proper conversation. Especially when immediately after I darted away, pretending the whole interaction didn’t exist.

I know him, though. (Well, _of_ him.) He’s in my communications course. _Simon Snow_ is his name. He’s got golden curls, blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a smile that manages to make the entire dreadful auditorium light up.

It’s both infuriating and _completely_ captivating. 

He’s fit. He’s kind. He’s the epitome of a golden boy. (He’d never go for me. Dark hair, brooding demeanor. _Gay_ as all get out.) 

(I’m not sure if _he_ is.) (Gay that is.)

One day he had a pride flag pinned to his book bag. Thought it might be him coming out. But when I walked outside, I saw a club handing them out for free.

I let out a sigh, taking another sip of my tea. 

I’m about to correct a sentence (why use a comma when the em dash is right there?) when Fiona shuts my laptop.

I’m about to tell her off, but she shuts me up. 

“For once, Basil, take a risk,” she says. Her eyes are fierce, although her words are soft. It’s confusing. I’m not sure if I should feel frightened or encouraged. She ruffles my hair (I decide on anger as my chosen emotion) and walks down the hallway. “Ask the boy on a date!”

The bathroom door slams. I sigh, returning to my laptop. 

_As if it were that easy._

Simon

Every day I pass this bloke on my way to the dining hall from class. 

_Every. Day._

And every day he has something new to critique about me.

_“Your hair is sticking up in the back.”_

_“There’s a grass stain on your arse.”_

_“Your shirt’s tucked into your pants.”_

Alright, so I appreciated the last one—especially since I was wearing pants decorated with tiny ducks—but _still_. 

It’s hard to concentrate when I see him coming. The anxiety builds, and I find myself mentally thinking through everything I’m wearing that day—wondering what he’s going to point out—what mistake I’ve made without realizing it.

It’s even worse that he’s in one of my classes. I can hardly focus on the course. Half the time I find myself watching him—waiting. It’s detrimental to my scores at this point— and I _need_ to do well to keep my scholarship. 

_Baz Pitch_. 

Athletic, smart, _fit_. Complete and total arse. 

(I want to punch the smirk off his face.)

Luckily, now I’m at lunch, the one sacred time of the day. It’s safe in the dining hall, a haven of pastries and sandwiches, completely free of any raised eyebrows or judging eyes. Baz usually has his tutoring gig until one o'clock (yes, I know his schedule), so I’m free to eat without wondering when he’ll show up. 

_Safe at last._

“Simon,” Penny says, sitting across from me with her tea and a sandwich. “Tell him to bugger off or simply let it go.”

She’s been listening to me complain for the last several minutes about the latest plot of Baz’s. He pointed out a loose thread on my shirt, offered to cut it off for me even. I denied him, of course. Who knows what he would have done? Rip my shirt off? Make me spend class shirtless and awkward?

No way. I’m not living through my teenage nightmare of being naked in front of the class.

I pushed past him to my seat, and pretended not to watch his reaction.

It’s all I could focus on during class though—ended up completely tearing the thread off, ripping the hem out. Now it’s all wonky and little holes have started to appear. 

“I can’t just let it _go_ , Pen.” I cut my sandwich in half. (Triangles. The only acceptable form of sandwich.) “He’s such a _prick_.” 

She sighs. I know she’s done with this conversation. She told me once that Baz-talk is boring—that I need to find a new thing to fixate on. I just can’t seem to stop myself. It comes out like a constant stream of word vomit. 

I take a large bite of my sandwich and try to make myself stew in silence. 

Fucking _Baz Pitch._

Just because he’s _fit_ and _posh_ doesn’t mean he gets to criticize me at every waking moment. His clothes probably cost more than the flat I share with Penelope. 

(I want to tear all the buttons off his shirt one of these days.) (Then tell him that he missed a button.)

I smirk to myself, eating a crisp and reaching for my soda. _That’d show him._

I see the culprit walking in and I pause with my hand halfway to my mouth, sandwich in tow.

 _Baz_.

He’s not supposed to— The dining hall’s _safe_. Why is he _here?_

And why is he here looking so… well. Like _him_.

Baz always has himself put together. Even in uni, where the rest of us wear joggers or trackies—he walks around acting like he’s a fucking model. Right now he’s wearing nice trousers and a button down. His hair’s slicked back. (It’s stupid. I want to mess it up, make it wild.) (I bet he’d absolutely lose his _shit_ at that.) And his shoes make a stupid _clack_ noise as he walks past us. 

My heart rate rises, _waiting_ for him to say something. I know for a fact that there’s a bit of sauce on my shirt. 

_Perfect bait for the critic._

His eyes sweep our table as he continues to walk by, and my mouth opens—ready to fight.

But he says nothing. He gives a nod to Penny and keeps walking to his table.

“God, you’re obsessed,” she states, lifting her fork to her mouth.

I frown, watching him walk away. It takes a moment before I say “Wait—I’m not _obsessed_ with him.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m done with this conversation, regardless. I need to revise for an exam.” She puts an earbud into one ear, giving me a look as she does the other.

I let it drop, not wanting to face the wrath of a Penelope who’s studying. I look back to the cafe, trying to see where Baz ended up.

It doesn’t take long until I find him. He’s reading a book, hand lazily picking up chips and bringing them to his mouth. His feet are rested on the chair across from him, his head’s rested on the wall.

He looks relaxed. Comfortable.

It makes my skin itch in a way I can’t explain. 

I purse my lips, thinking. Debating. _Plotting_.

This bloke continues to get under my skin. He seeps into every pore, edges into every thought.

_I need to get him back._

(I need to get even.)

I eat the rest of my sandwich, pondering my next move. Debating how to best get under his skin, like he does to me. 

A lightbulb goes off in my head when I realize what I need to do. I jump from the table and wave to Penny, walking towards Baz. She ignores me. 

He doesn’t see me as I approach, so I take a minute to debate my next move.

I bend over and untie my shoes, then continue forward, getting weird glances by those I pass. When I get to his table, I pause and pretend to check my phone. When I look up I see him watching me.

I try to raise an eyebrow (both go up—but I hope it gives the desired effect), waiting for what he needs to say.

He clears his throat. “Your laces are untied.”

It takes everything in me not to let my smirk show, taking relish in the fact that my plan worked. I bend down and fix my shoes in front of him.

“Thanks, Baz,” I say, and I walk away, leaving him to watch me—mouth agape at realizing I know who he is.

_This is going to be too much fun._

Baz

Snow has been a special case the past few days. I feel like I’ve seen him more often around campus—and I’m not sure _why_.

Fiona’s voice rings through my ears. _Just ask him out, Basil. Get it over with so you can stop wistfully staring at him from across the room._

I threw my pencil at her when she said that.

I don’t _wistfully stare_. I’m not some adolescent schoolgirl watching the boy on the football team run laps, desperate for him to wave at her. 

Snow starts walking down the hall and my heart skips a beat.

( _Fuck_.)

Call me Jessica and give me a cheerleading uniform, because Simon Snow is the jock and I’m the hopeless case who’s in love with him. 

_Deep breath._

We’re both walking to class. It’s not as if we’re going to stop and have a chat with each other. (What would we talk about?) 

He waves his friend goodbye. (Bunce.) (I’m still surprised by that friendship. Bunce is logical, extremely studious.) (Simon is… well. I think I’ve only ever seen him in the library with _her_. Never on his own.) 

He slows down, and I feel my feet doing the same. (I should be running, shouldn’t I?) (Come up with an excuse. Turn towards the loo.) I look to my right, where I know the toilets are located.

The out-of-order sign hastily written by a custodian mocks me.

 _No running now_.

I could simply perish? Melt into a puddle right now?

Didn’t I hear something about spontaneous combustion once? Maybe that’s how I’ll go. I look down at the carpet, watching as my feet stop moving.

I’ll burn a hole in it.

(The carpet.)

Maybe it’ll make them replace it. There are stains everywhere from age (from reckless uni twats too, I’m sure).

I look up at Snow. (Well. Down.) (The only joy I have in life is that Simon Snow is shorter than me.) (By at least three inches.) (Four if I wear shoes with a slight lift.)

_Just ask him out._

(Shut it, Fiona.)

I open my mouth, readying myself to talk to him. (I’ve got to do it. Just have a completely normal conversation with him before asking him out.) (It can’t be _that_ hard.)

He lifts a hand, giving a wave hello.

_Why does this all feel like it’s in slow motion?_

I look at him. _Really_ look at him.

And, of course, the one thing my mind notices, and what my mouth ends up saying—

“Your flies undone,” I blurt.

 _Fuck_.

He blinks, registering my comment. “Er—” He looks down at his crotch, and I find myself following his eyes, watching him slowly zip—

“Er—” I stammer. “I’ve got to go.” I turn and practically run into a pole, but I manage to get away.

(Fucking hell.) (I can never speak to anyone ever again in my life.)

Simon

I’m not sure what I expected out of this. 

I wanted to mess with him. To beat him at his own game.

But then—in the hall. He—

I don’t know. It felt like it could have been… normal? He was standing close, nearly _smiling_ even. I forgot that when I saw him coming I’d unzipped my flies. 

( _Why_ did I choose that of all things?) (I’m fairly certain he could see my pants.)

(At least they’re the nice ones. No holes or ducks or anything.) 

I forgot myself, getting lost in whatever Baz keeps in his eyes. ( _Why_ am I so caught up on his _fucking_ eyes?)

So when he acted just like I planned for him to—I was surprised. (Completely caught off guard.)

I stammered a bit.

My cheeks heated up. (Like I said, I didn’t think it through.) (Unzipping flies invites others to stare at your crotch.) 

And when I reached down to zip it up, I swear his eyes followed. 

He ran away so quickly, though, that I could have been mistaken.

I continue to walk down the hallway and out of the building. 

For the rest of the day I find things that remind me of the grey in his eyes. 

\----------

A few days later, when I entered our class, he pointed out that my shirt had the tag sticking out of the collar. I was passing by his seat, trying not to pay attention to him.

I had taken a break from torturing him. My head was swimming with exam stress, and I kept getting odd feelings when I saw him.

I straightened up my trousers when I saw him coming. Checked my flies. Did _anything_ to not be noticed for those few days.

I couldn’t handle it—the _attention_. 

But then he stood up as I stared at him—mouth agape. 

He looked nervous, and I thought for a moment I should be scared.

But he reached around to the back of my neck—cold fingers sending a small shiver down my spine—and tucked it in.

“There you go,” he whispered. He sat down, opening his computer for class.

I stood awkwardly until someone shuffled past me, making snide comments under their breath.

When I sat down I scratched the spot he touched—right below my hairline on the nape of my neck.

I wasn’t able to focus all class.

\----------

“Simon,” Penelope snaps. “Don’t you think you’re taking it a bit _far_?”

I’m undoing my belt, seeing if he notices when it’s missed a loop. (Knowing him he will.) (Eagle eyes, that man.)

I frown. “Whaddya mean?”

“I _mean_ —” she sighs, putting her bag on a nearby bench. “It feels like a dumb way to annoy someone. It feels more like an attention grab than anything, Simon.”

I finish buckling my belt, and lean against a tree, watching Baz as he gets closer.

“Merlin,” she sighs. 

I hear her vaguely say something else (Did she say _flirting_?) then turn my attention to Baz.

He’s got a bag hanging off his shoulder, completely kitted for the football match.

He frowns when he sees me, and I think for a moment that I’ve got him—but he keeps walking.

“Hey!” I shout, pushing off from the tree and jogging to catch up to him. “Baz!”

He stops, looking at me like I’m the most confusing thing he’s ever seen.

“Er—” I scratch the back of my neck. I know my shirt lifts up when I do this, and judging by the quick drop of his eyes, I know he’s seen the missed belt loop. “Good luck today! At the—uh—match.”

He nods, adjusting his bag. “You’ve missed a loop there, Snow,” he mutters.

“Oh… I—” I look down, feigning ignorance. “Thanks.”

Baz

Snow starts fumbling his way through unbuckling his belt. 

He’s such a mess.

(God, I love it.)

My brain vaguely tells me that I need to be on the field in ten, but… I can’t tear myself away.

Simon Snow, lifting his shirt up to fix his belt.

I can’t help but watch the bit of skin that becomes exposed. Slightly paler than the rest (I still spot a few freckles, however). A stomach I want to put my hands on and squeeze (I wonder if he’s ticklish?)

There’s a bit of hair trailing from his belly button to his—

Something in my bag starts to go off.

I shake my head, mouthing _sorry_ to Snow. He continues to put his belt on as I pick my phone out of a pocket.

_Dev._

I roll my eyes and slip it back into the bag.

(He’s calling about the match, I’m sure.)

Simon waves goodbye to me, and I lift my hand to do the same when it hits me—

_The match._

_Fuck_.

I turn around and sprint towards the field, cursing Snow and his inability to put his clothes on properly. 

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to manage an entire match with Simon Snow out there. How I’m supposed to continue existing while knowing he has two freckles to the left of his belly button. 

_Deep breath._

A whistle blows, and cheers begin. 

Simon

I think about Baz the whole walk home.

His eyes as they followed my hands. The tip of his tongue against his top lip.

How absolutely distracted he was by me.

And how, no matter how much I deny it, I _loved_ it. His attention. Knowing he was watching me. 

(Maybe Penny was more right than I thought she’d be.) (She always is.)

I sit on the sofa and stare at the ceiling and close my eyes. 

It’s evening, and I’m not really tired yet. But my mind wanders.

I think of his grey eyes, how his hands (they’re soft, I’ve felt them) would feel under my shirt. 

My skin starts to feel hot—and I realize it’s _definitely_ more than just a game at this point.

It’s attraction. Want.

It’s a crush. 

\----------

I somehow manage to not run into Baz for a couple of days. I feel breathless without our run-ins. Like I’m waiting for him to show up at any moment, ready with a slew of insults or pointed comments about my shoelaces. (They’re worn down, the plastic end bits of them are long gone.)

I resign myself to the library, kicked out of the flat by Penelope who says I’m being _annoying_.

(Said I kept _sighing_ too loud.)

The library at our school has a mezzanine on the second floor, filled with private study rooms for students to enjoy. Windows that look onto the main floor. 

It’s fairly empty today— _Wednesday_. There aren’t midterms. No major tests.

(I have work to do, though.) 

I’m walking along the hall, past empty rooms. I could choose any of them, but there’s a room four doors down that has well placed wifi, and the softest chairs in the building.

I shouldn’t be surprised when I go up to the window and see someone sitting in it. (I wish it was a secret. That no one else knew of the powers of the chair. Of the fact that there are two outlets instead of one.) (Or how well hidden it is in comparison to others.)

And, of course, it’s Baz.

I take a step back, my heart beating hard in my chest.

I could keep walking. Go to the next room. Maybe go three rooms back.

 _Or_ …

I drop my bag.

_I could take a risk._

I take my shirt off, flip it inside out, and put it back on.

(Somewhere Penelope is screaming at me, telling me that this is _dumb_.) (But I can’t help it.) (It’s our _thing_ now.) (It’s practically tradition, and _completely_ necessary.)

I swing my bag onto my shoulder again and knock twice on the door before opening it.

Raised eyebrow. Curious, wondering.

He has a pen between his teeth, notebook in his lap. There’s an AirPod in his left ear, the other in his right hand, pulled out when I entered.

“Could I study here?” I ask. “Everywhere else is full.”

He frowns. 

It’s such a lie. I’m sure he knows it is. He probably saw how empty it was when he strolled in, lazily making his way to the best room in the library. I’m sure he felt like a king.

But it’s a test. A last call to see if what I suspect is true.

If it were me, and I knew he was lying about this _just_ to be close to me, I’d play along.

He nods his head. My shoulders relax, and the door closes softly behind me.

Baz sets his AirPod on the small wooden table, looking back at his notes. It’s a small gesture. Open to hearing me if I’ve anything to say.

He looks back up as I pull my laptop out of my bag. 

“Snow,” he drawls. I look up. His eyes are looking at a spot right behind my back. I turn, expecting there to be a spider on the wall, but there’s nothing. “Your shirt’s on inside out.”

I let the smirk pass briefly on my face before turning back to him. I look down and pull on the side of my shirt, examining it. “Oh, look at that,” I say. “Bloody hell, can’t believe no one’s told me about that.” I set the last of my books down on the table. “I had lunch with Penny and everything and she didn’t say a single word.”

I grab the hem of my shirt and begin pulling it over my head.

“Snow!” Baz says frantically. 

I put the shirt back down, feigning confusion. “What?”

“We’re in the _library_ …” he whispers. There’s a lovely pink tinge to his cheeks. 

“Do _you_ want to fix it?” I ask.

He blinks and stares at anything that isn’t me. “ _What?”_ It comes out as a crack, an octave higher than what I know his voice to be. 

I think, momentarily, about how far I want to push this. (He _is_ cute when he flusters about.) (I don’t think I’ve seen him as anything other than calm and collected. This is... _new_.) (I love it.)

So I decide to push my limit.

“You heard me.”

He looks back towards me and stands up, closing his book. “ _Christ_ Snow. Who _raised_ you? Who let you think that you could just—that you are _able_ to— I can’t believe—” he stammers. Adjusting his things in piles.

“I like you,” I state. Clearly. Calmly. 

He freezes. “I—er... you…”

“I like you,” I repeat again. I step forward. He doesn’t move. “Like… _a lot_.” He sits back down. “Which was news to me, frankly. I thought I _hated_ you.” He flinches. “Sorry… I just mean. All you ever did was criticize my outfits!” 

“I—” he starts.

“So!” I shout over him. “I started to do it purposefully. I—well… I _thought_ I was doing it to annoy you. That I was getting back at you. But then…” I lean against the wall, leaning my head back and looking up at the ceiling. I slowly slide to the floor, letting my hands rest on the scratchy carpet. “Then I realized—I like you.” 

A breath. 

A cleared throat, making me look back at Baz. He moves to my side, sitting down against the wall with me.

I think, for a moment, what a waste of the best chairs in the library this is. But then I feel his fingertips on the back of my hand.

“I like you too, Snow.” He moves my hand, letting it rest palm up. He traces the lines of my palm like it’ll tell him a story. “Have for a while,” he sighs. “Just never knew how to get it out.”

We sit like that for another moment. I hear laughter of other students as they walk into a room down the hall.

I twist so I’m facing Baz. 

He looks up at me, and I lean closer. Slowly. His eyes flutter close, and I think about his lovely lashes.

(Everything about him is lovely, really.)

I press my lips to his, letting my eyes close shut as my hand goes to his cheek. His hand goes to the small of my back and pushes me closer, a soft push. A suggestion.

I move, letting the kiss deepen. We move so we’re facing each other, pulling each other closer. His chest against mine, me kneeling—him sitting. I’m taller than him like this. (It’s nice, really.) (He has to lean up to kiss me.)

He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls back. I lift my arms up without thinking.

And it’s after, when my bare chest is exposed, and his eyes rake over me, that I realize we’re in a _public_ library. (There’s a window on the door. One wall of windows showing the main floor of the library.)

“Oh, uh,” I stammer. “Thanks—” I reach up to grab it, to fix my shirt.

He smirks. 

My stomach drops. “Baz—”

He stands up, tying the sleeves of my shirt around his waist. “Too late, Snow.” He moves to his chair, opening a book, _completely_ ignoring me. “Should have thought about _that_ before you walked into this room wearing it incorrectly.”

Someone does a double-take as they walk past our room. I cover my chest with my arms.

“ _Baz_ —” I plead, getting up. “Can I _please_ have my shirt back?”

He hums, pondering. 

“Nope,” he says, emphasis on the _p_.

Seems cool and confident Baz has returned. 

(I want to be angry.) (But I can’t.)

Not when he’s got a goofy smirk on his face, and the end of his pen in his mouth, flipping another page of his book.

I sigh, sitting in the chair across from him. (It’s so comfy. And _soft_.) (Thank god we’ve got the soft chairs. I’d leave with carpet burns on my back from some of these other chairs.)

“Maybe this will teach you to check that your clothes are properly put on.”

I roll my eyes and toss an eraser at him. He catches it. (Of course. Git.) 

“Fine, but _you’ll_ have to explain to security why I’m here half-naked when they do their check.”

“I’ll simply tell them you barged into my room like this.” He flips the page.

I’m not sure what I expected. That kissing Baz would change how we interact? 

But his foot is resting against mine, and when he thinks I’m not looking, he watches me. And he gets distracted when I stretch my arms or twist my wrist. 

So it’s not so bad.

It’s _him_.

It’s me.

It’s _us_.

(And he does give my shirt back before someone comes by to check our room.) (But not until we make out a bit more under the table.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! Check me out on [Tumblr!](http://tumblr.com/blog/caitybuglove23)


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